


Rising

by pukajen



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-10-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 18:02:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukajen/pseuds/pukajen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they find me, I’m never going to live this down. Haymitch will laugh loud and long and poke me. While Peeta will no doubt sigh and shake his head and at some point in the future give me a sly jab about tripping over a root and tumbling down a hill no higher than a train car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [athousandwinds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/athousandwinds/gifts).



> Spoilers: Post-Mockingjay  
> Disclaimer: None of the characters, in any of their incarnations, belong to me.  
> Author's Note : Thanks to soundingsea for the beta!

I have made myself as comfortable as possible, which is to say not that comfortable at all; the ground is padded with autumn leaves, but it is still the ground and a tree root pushes uncomfortably into my back. 

When they find me, I’m never going to live this down. Haymitch will laugh loud and long and poke me about either severely spraining or breaking my right ankle – I haven’t had the courage to remove my boot – and twisting my other knee while walking. Peeta will no doubt sigh and shake his head as he takes care of me and at some point in the future give me a sly jab about tripping over a root and tumbling down a hill no higher than a train car.

Angrily, I glare at the small incline I tumbled down several hours before. I can clearly see the path of displaced leaves and smeared earth my body made on its ignoble trip down to an end that led to my broken ankle. I’m not sure how I twisted my knee; sometime down the fall, before my ankle.

Never, not even under methods that the Capitol would have used, will I admit I stumbled because I was watching a squirrel and her two babies play in the tree tops without even taking aim. Luckily, my bow seems unbroken, though the same cannot be said for several of my arrows. 

In the four years since the fall of the Capitol, I have settled in to a good life. I no longer *need* to hunt, but I *need* the forest, the peace of it, the practice of pulling my bow and shooting an arrow true. 

I stay far away from the grave that is now a meadow. I don’t go to the cabin either. 

Instead, I find new places, places that I rarely went before because the game was scarce or it was too close the east entrance of the mine. But the mines are closed now, and animals sense death and stay far away from my old hunting grounds.

It is not quite winter, so while there is no snow on the ground, there is a bite in the air. As my ankle and knee throb in time with my heartbeat, I almost wish it were winter so that I could pack the snow around my aching joints.

The tree has a natural dip, and I have made myself as comfortable as possible, shielding myself from the wind, using dry leaves as both padding between myself and the hard ground and insulation from the cold. Still, a tree and forest floor are far from the comfort of a bed or padded chair to which I’ve become used to over the years. I admit that I’ve started to become soft, to let this reality become the dominant one and not that of my childhood. Or worse, the fatal opulence of the Capitol. 

The sun is getting low on the horizon and I wonder how long it’ll before Peeta starts to worry. If he’ll start to worry. It has been a long time since I have spent the night in the forest, but it’s not an unprecedented event and I’ve been restless in recent weeks. Still, it’s been months since I’ve stayed out after dark without warning him, years since I’ve spent the night. 

And never since starting this new life have I been away more than a few hours without letting him know. A shiver wracks my body and I stifle a small moan of pain as my knee and ankle are jarred. The shivering will only become worse and I wonder how I’ll stand the agony. But worse, far worse will be when the shivers stop altogether. I have no way of building a fire which would both give me warmth and signal my location; even if I could get the damp twigs to light, the way the wind is kicking up the dry leaves brings images of forest fires. Fire is one of the many things that still makes me uneasy, especially an uncontrolled one. 

To the west I hear a faint sound and strain to hear if it’s a rescue party or an animal. 

Or worse, one of the crazy, half-wild nomads who have left civilization and live on the fringes of Districts 11 and 12.

There’s more movement, closer now, a bit of a stumbling step and the tail end of a slurred curse, but the wind takes a voice that is too low for me to make out who it is. I hope it’s not one of the crazies; there have been whisperings of missing chickens and stolen clothes from those who live on the outer edges, but no ready suspect. And it’s easier to blame the imaginary monster in the woods than one’s neighbors. 

Still, those whispers seem to be growing every day and a group of new police have shown up; part of a squad dedicated to making our towns – we’re supposed to call where we live towns now, but no one does; I still say I live in District 12, that Beetee still lives in District 3, the Capitol is still the place of wonder and horror – safer, to find those raiding our homes and give them a choice: stop and accept re-training; go far, far away and lead their own lives, or be incarcerated. 

Most end up disappearing. I can’t decided if they have in fact gone to live in their own small patch of isolation or if there is a new place that no one talks of where those who do not fit into this new society get sent. 

“Dammit! Why is it always me that has to look for her?” growls a voice from somewhere not far from where I took my tumble.

It is a voice I would recognize in the deepest of comas, in the throes of madness. 

“Because you are the only one ornery enough to put up with me,” I answer Haymitch’s question.

“Of course, I’m the one to find her,” he mutters. “Where the hell are you?”

“Keep walking in the direction you’ve been going,” I tell him. Then think to add, “Watch out for the small hill.” The last thing I need is Haymitch tumbling down and landing on me in a drunken heap. 

“Now, what are you doing down there?” Haymitch asks, sounding surprisingly sober. Or, more sober than I’ve heard him in months.

“I thought it was a nice place for a tea party so sat down and waited for others to join me,” I tell him sarcastically.

Straightening up, Haymitch takes in the short drop, the disturbed forest ground and the awkward way I’m sitting.

“You fell?” His tone is both incredulous and highly amused. “Down this?” He makes a broad sweeping gesture that has him swaying ever so slightly and has me worried again about him toppling down on me. “You fell, down this?”

“Well, I sure as hell didn’t slide down for my health,” I grit out. Maybe spending the night out here wouldn’t have been so bad.

“How did you manage it?”

“I tripped,” I say to him belligerently. There is no torture or bribe compelling enough for me to tell him – or anyone – more than that. 

“And just what was it that made you trip, sweetheart?”

I remain silent. 

Belying his normal intoxicated state, he slides down the hill and manages, just barely, to stay upright. With a wide grin plastered on his face, he squats down next to me. 

“Now, just what have you managed to do to yourself this time?”

“My right ankle is badly sprained, maybe broken, and I’ve wrenched my left knee.” I list off my injuries matter-of-factly. 

As he hasn’t called out for anyone to join him and I don’t see any kind of communication device, I’m guessing he’s going to have to haul me out of here and that won’t be pleasant. 

The grin leaves his face for an instant and he runs his hands through his hair; then, like a switch has been flipped, he grins mockingly at me. “Looks like I’m going to have to carry you out of here.”

“We should probably make a brace for my knee.”

Nodding, Haymitch scans the area looking for an appropriate branch. There’s an evergreen not that far away, and he walks over and slips out a wicked looking knife from a holster around his calf. I wonder how long he’s worn it for as I’ve never seen it before. He still sleeps with a knife clutched in his hand.

With a couple of hacks, the branch is separated from the tree and Haymitch is making his way back to me. 

“Here.” He hands me a flask from his chest pocket. “Drink enough to dull the pain, but not enough that you won’t be able to hang on.”

Unscrewing the cap, I take a couple of long swallows, trying my best not to shudder as the white alcohol burns its way down my throat and roils around in my stomach. It’s been years since I’ve had anything stronger than the wine that Peeta and I sometimes get for special occasions and I’ve forgotten how vile-tasting Haymitch’s poison of choice is.

Silently, I undo my belt and offer it to him to use as binding for the splint. 

“Don’t bother with my ankle; my boot will work better than anything you could do,” I tell him as I brace myself for some jostling; Haymitch isn’t exactly known for his bedside manner or his doctoring skills.

“Says the girl who fell down a five-foot hill and busted herself up. What do you think your adoring fans would say if they could see you now?”

“A lot less than you!”

“Ain’t that the truth,” he mumbles and goes to work efficiently immobilizing my left leg. From what I can see, his hands are steady, but he keeps licking his lips and there’s a tightness around his eyes. 

Not for the first time, I wonder how he reacted when I got injured during the games.

For all that Haymitch and I have butted heads, we understand each other in a way no one else does. That understanding is not a comfortable thing, but we have learned to live with it over the years. Also, we’ve had Peeta to smooth out many of the rough edges and sharp corners that we would no doubt of ripped each other to shreds with otherwise.

While Haymitch is gentle enough, I still find myself biting back a gasp as he fastens the top of the two branches to my leg.

“Where’s Peeta?” I ask suddenly, trying to get my mind off my knee which has started throbbing as if wants to explode.

“He went with a couple others to go check out the cabin and surrounding areas,” he tells me as he buckles the bottom sections of wood. 

“All the way out there?” I ask, bewildered. Peeta knows I don’t like the cabin and the memories it holds. 

“I told him you weren’t there, but he seemed set on a course, and I figured it was better to let him go than waste time arguing.”

It hits me that he said ‘others’. 

“How many people know I’m missing?” More importantly, how many people will learn of this ignoble tumble the girl who was on fire took. A girl lauded for her grace and hunting skills. It is a good thing most people stay away from me and that there is no media allowed to approach me without first clearing it through the government. 

“I’d say about two dozen or so are out in the woods looking. If there’s no word by sunset, it’ll be more than that.”

“How many more?”

“Enough,” Haymitch tells me shortly, taking back his flask. As though talking of Peeta and the untold ‘others’ reminds him, Haymitch pats his pockets and finally fishes into the left pocket of his coat and pulls out a small communication device. It is similar to the ones I wore when pretending to be the Mockingjay.

It’s been years since I’ve seen one this close – police, soldiers, and many officials wear them, but as I stay as far away from them as possible. Even when I’m near enough to see details, I tend to look at just about anyone else than those people who remind me of the horrors of the past.

“Hey,” Haymitch says into the air. “I’ve found her.” He pauses to listen to whomever is speaking. “Banged up some: a cut on her neck, but it stopped bleeding before I showed up.”

Really? And suddenly, I feel the dull trail of fire graze that starts under my left ear and goes to my chin. “Thanks,” I mutter. Just what I needed: another spot of pain to focus on. 

“Her hands are beat to shit, but nothing that hasn’t happened a dozen times before; should heal up quickly.”

I look down at my hands, they don’t seem that bad; just dirty, and bruised some. The cut on my right palm is more of a graze than anything else, but I know it’ll burn like fire when it comes time to pour antiseptic on it.

“I’m going to have to carry her out,” Haymitch says quickly, his words running and slurring together. “I’d need to be much drunker. No, it’s her right ankle and left knee. I haven’t looked too closely at either, but I trust her when she says she can’t walk on them. I know.” There’s another long pause.”Look, just have a doctor waiting for us at your place when we get back.”

It’s then that I realize that he’s talking to Peeta and I want to snatch the communication device away from him. Whether it’s to talk to Peeta myself, or get Haymitch to stop listing my injuries, I’m not sure. Or maybe it’s just the thought of the doctor waiting at the end of this to poke and prod me. I’ve had enough of doctors to last me ten lifetimes.

“I don’t need a doctor,” I say loud enough for Peeta to hear as well. I’m not sure what Peeta’s answer is, but Haymitch rolls his eyes at me. 

“Oh, she’s her usual charming self. It’s too bad that the doctor won’t be able to do anything about her sunny disposition,” Haymitch says, grinning sourly at me as he speaks. 

“Like you’re one to talk,” I shoot back, crossing my arms and glaring at him. I force myself to ignore the throb of pain in my hands and hold the pose until he gets distracted by whatever Peeta is saying.

“No, by the time you get here, it’ll be full dark, so I might as well start heading back to town now.” The look he gives me is half sympathy, half defiance. “If you can meet me midway, that’d help. You might want to bring a stretcher and some painkillers.”

Great, just great. I wonder how many people are going to witness this newest disaster I’ve brought upon myself. You’d think I’d be used to it by now; it’s not like most of Panem hasn’t seen me at my lowest, but still, I thought my days of being paraded as a broken girl were over. 

I wonder if this latest incident will mean more empty phone calls with Dr. Aurelius. It’s been a while since I’ve talked to him, but I have little doubt that those who monitor me from a distance will note down what’s happened today.

“All right, how do you want to do this?” Haymitch asks and I realize that I’ve missed the end of his conversation with Peeta. 

“Call a hovercraft to come and pick me up,” I tell him.

“Sure, I’ll just get on line to the captain of my fleet of hovercrafts that I keep behind my house,” Haymitch says sarcastically. “Get real, sweetheart. I’m your only way out of here unless you want me to leave you behind and go get a couple of other volunteers to carry the Mockingjay out on a stretcher in the dead of night.”

I glare at him, hating the truth of his words. I still can’t bear for most people to touch me, for them to look at me. I’ve grown to Haymitch’s accustomed pensive stares and to crave Peeta’s touch, and I can even tolerate Greasy Sae’s pats and her granddaughter’s hugs, but other people still make me tense and suppress the urge to hit. To kill. 

“Look, we don’t have all day,” Haymitch cuts in impatiently. “I want to get home before it’s completely dark.”

“Might as well toss me over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes,” I tell him. It’s the only way I can figure he can carry me without putting an unbearable amount of pressure on my knee.

He takes a long pull from the flask before offering it to me again. Wordlessly, I take it from him and finish off the last couple of swallows of the white liquor before handing the empty flask back to him.

“Up and at ‘em, sweetheart.” Haymitch offers me his hand and hauls me to standing position. It takes all I have not to cry out. As it is, I bite the inside of my cheek hard enough to draw blood.

“Get on with it,” I tell him, not wanting to disgrace myself by ending up in a heap at his feet. 

With a grunt and a dizzying amount of pain, the world lurches and I’m staring at Haymitch’s backside. His pants have an odd green stain by his left hip.

“You’ve put on weight,” he complains as he begins scrambling up the small hill. 

I don’t answer because he slips and my right foot slams against a tree; white-hot pain sears through me and I can’t help the whimper that escapes my lips. 

In grim silence, we make our way towards home.


	2. The Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the time we meet up with Peeta, we are less than an hour from home and I’ve slipped into a nowhere land trying to escape the pain. It’s a place I’m incredibly familiar with and welcome like an old, not entirely missed friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: Post-Mockingjay  
> Disclaimer: None of the characters, in any of their incarnations, belong to me.  
> Author's Note : Sorry for the huge delay between the first chapter and this one. The third, and final chapter, has just been returned to me from my beta. Speaking of, many, many, man thanks to the amazing soundingsea for the beta!

By the time we meet up with Peeta, we are less than an hour from home and I’ve slipped into a nowhere land trying to escape the pain. It’s a place I’m incredibly familiar with and welcome like an old, not entirely missed friend. 

The ride on the stretcher is no less painful than being tossed over Haymitch’s shoulder was, as I’ve now added aching ribs to my tally of injuries. Haymitch refuses to completely relinquish my care to anyone, even Peeta, and takes hold of one side of the stretcher himself while Peeta takes the other. Two of the others – Bralla, an old schoolmate of Prim’s, and Lanneer, who moved here from District 2 even before the Capitol fell – run off with instructions to make sure the doctor knows of my injuries and to meet us at my house.

I float in and out of the nowhere land; it’s full dark now, but we’ve made it to the part of the forest with established trails and for all Haymitch’s alcohol consumption, he’s steady as a rock while he carries me. Peeta is quiet and drawn and I regret that I’ve been the cause of yet more pain for to him. 

Above my head, branches thin, then give way to a night sky brilliant with stars, as there’s no moon tonight.

I suppose one of the good things about being famous, or, really, notorious, and unstable is that the government keeps tabs on me. It might be from afar these days, but I’m sure that the second my name is so much as whispered alongside something outside of my normal life, all sorts of alarms are sounded. So, there’s not only a doctor but also a nurse and some sort of assistant waiting when Peeta and Haymitch carry me up the steps and through the front door. 

They bring me into the kitchen as it has the best light and the kitchen table is both sturdy and high enough to make a convenient worktable. Memories assail me of the dozens, hundreds of people my sister and mother treated here, of the sick, the starving, the injured, and in pain. Of Gale, barely conscious, back in ribbons, paying for a crime that wasn’t really a transgression at all.

“Katniss!” Peeta is above me saying my name in a way that lets me know he’s been trying to bring me back for a while. “Welcome back,” he says, voice softer now, and leans down to brush his lips over mine. 

“It wasn’t much of a trip,” I tell him.

“I don’t know,” Haymitch butts in. “It looks to me like your trip got you a busted ankle, a twisted knee, and maybe a good blood infection. Oh, and some bruised ribs.”

“Those are your fault,” I shoot back, turning my head to look at him.

“They only happened because I had to haul your sorry ass out of the woods after you’d stumbled like an idiot down a rise that a blind three-legged goat could have avoided.” He takes a swig from a bottle of white alcohol. “Cause and effect, sweetheart, cause and effect.” 

“Where did you get the bottle?” I ask, wanting to get the attention off me. The medical staff seem to be content to watch the show we’re putting on. The doctor’s bright blue eyes are filled with intelligence and not a little irritation as she take the three of us in with long, assessing looks. 

“I’ve got hiding places all over.” He takes a much longer drink this time.

“In my house?” I wonder what else he has hidden here and want to wring the answer out of him. I wonder what other people have hidden here.

“Can we worry about where Haymitch hides his alcohol later? Like, say, after the doctor has examined you?” Peeta asks, breaking up our argument. 

“I don’t need a doctor,” I tell him belligerently. 

“Yes, you do!” both Peeta and Haymitch shoot back in tandem.

“Let’s see what all the fuss is about,” the doctor puts in, finally tired of our bickering. She’s short, maybe a good half-head shorter than me, very pale with coppery-colored hair that you don’t really see on anyone outside Districts 1 and 2.

I haven’t met her before, but I know her type trained in the Capitol, fascinated by the outlying districts, always wanting to do good and put her nose in everyone else’s business. 

“No fuss,” I say, wanting to get this all over with as quickly as possible. “I’m fine.”

“Says the girl who had to be carried out of the forest and nearly passed out on the journey,” lightly mocks Haymitch as he takes another swig of his bottle and then slouches down into one of the kitchen chairs.

“What?” Peeta rounds on Haymitch. “You didn’t say anything.”

“There wasn’t any point and I’m saying it now.” Haymitch leans back in the chair so he’s balanced precariously on two legs. It wouldn’t break my heart if he toppled over backwards, cracked his head open, and needed a good amount of medical attention himself. 

“Was she lucid when you found her, Mr. Abernathy?” the doctor asks as she starts tapping on a handheld electronic pad.

“As lucid as Katniss gets,” he half-sneers. 

The doctor’s lips press into a firm line at his answer and I wonder if she has an urge to strangle him. It’s one that most people get if they spend more than three minutes in Haymitch’s company. I’m not exactly sure why no one has attempted it yet. 

“Let’s see how bad you’re hurt,” she says with a nod to the nurse. 

With a frightening efficiency, my left boot and sock are been removed by the nurse as the doctor takes my vitals. 

“How did you hurt yourself?” she asks when she’s done counting my heart beats. Her gaze locks on mine as if she can read my thoughts.

“I fell.” I hate doctors, I hate this attention, I hate the pain, I hate the way Haymitch is looking at me all pensive while Peeta is pale and his lips are in a tight line. 

“Well, I assumed you didn’t hit yourself with a hammer then cut your hands to shreds because you were bored.” The doctor crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow at me.

“I tripped over a root and tumbled down a short hill.” Never. Ever. Mention. Squirrels. 

“You seem to have done a fair amount of damage.” Once again, she starts tapping away on her little device. I wonder if she’s using it to help diagnose me or if she’s somehow communicating with those who keep tabs on me.

With a nod from the doctor the nurse starts cutting through the laces of my right boot. Every little snip sends licks of pain up my leg as if she were hitting me with a hammer. When the tension is gone, I can’t stop a moan as the pain throbs up in waves that make my stomach want to heave and muscles clench. 

“Do you need something for the pain?” the doctor asks, standing over me, her fingers pressed into my left wrist. She is both calm and concerned. 

“That would be good,” I manage to get out through gritted teeth.

“I don’t want to give you too much until I can assess what damage has been done. Nurse Comatita will give you something to take the edge off until we’re done.”

It’s then that I realize that I have no idea what the doctor’s name is.

As the nurse readies the needle, I look away and try to focus on the ceiling and block out the pain. The urge to disappear into myself is nearly overwhelming and only the knowledge of how hard it is to come back keeps me from retreating. 

“What’s your name?” I ask the doctor as I feel the prick of a needle in my left bicep. 

“Doctor Tatia Twanssi.” She smiles a bit. “The new doctor for this area.”

“Welcome to the end of the world,” Haymitch says, raising his bottle to toast her before taking a long drink. 

“I believe the end of the world was four years ago,” she answers dryly as she moves down to my feet. “I’ll be as gentle as I can, but if your ankle is broken there’s no way to make this not hurt.”

“More drugs will make it not hurt,” Haymitch says.

“Which I will give her as soon as I’ve assessed exactly what’s wrong.”

“If you—”

“Haymitch, shut up and let her do her job,” Peeta cuts him off, glaring daggers. 

The doctor didn’t lie; just the start of pulling my boot off hurts. A lot. I’ve been in considerable pain several times in my life, and this ranks right up there with the worst and she hasn’t even gotten to the part where I’ll need to point my toe. My hands fist and I can feel my nails biting into my already battered palms, but that pain is so small as to be a drop of water in a vast ocean. With a swift tug, she takes the boot the rest of the way off and I fight to stay conscious. 

They don’t bother pulling off my sock instead, the nurse returns with the scissors and they cut it off.

In gruesome fascination, I look down at my ankle which is swollen to nearly triple its normal size and is a nasty black color right where the bone is.

“Stee,” the doctor calls as she cradles my foot.

Stee, who is the third in the trio of medical professionals, comes over with another handheld device about the size of a loaf of bread and some sort of rectangular plate. He hands the plate to the nurse who holds it under my ankle as Stee places the device with lights and what appears to be a lens on top.

“Got it,” he says in a deep voice that sounds odd coming out of such a small, wiry man. From a bag on the floor, he pulls out a viewing pad and brings it over to Doctor Twanssi.

“Broken,” she tells me succinctly. 

“Yeah, that’s what I figured.” Perfect. I wonder how long I’ll be healing up from this.

“I’m going to have Nurse Comatita cut off your pants,” she says, but there’s a rise at the end as if she’s almost asking me a question. 

I look at her as if to tell her to get on with it, when her eyes cut to Peeta, then Haymitch. It takes a couple of seconds before I finally get that she’s asking me if I want them in the room with me. Haymitch I sort of understand, but Peeta has been quietly hovering and there was that kiss when I was first set down. Still, I appreciate that she’s offered me this privacy.

“Trust me, it’s nothing they haven’t seen before.” And it’s not like I have a lot of physical modesty left after my first Hunger Games. 

With a nod to the nurse, my pants are quickly taken care of. I’m glad it’s nearly time to wash our clothes and these were one of my least-favorite pairs of pants. As the material is pulled back I take a look at my knee. It is also swollen, but nowhere near as badly as my ankle and instead of black, it’s an angry red. 

Working as an efficient team, they get a scan of my knee and the doctor studies the pad as Nurse Comatita cleans the cut on my neck.

“The knee is sprained and you also pulled some ligaments,” Doctor Twanssi finally pronounces. 

I turn my head and look at Peeta; he’s going to need to take care of me. Again. Not for the first time, I wonder why he puts up with me. He gives me a small, lopsided smile, and I can see the love in his eyes and I know why he sticks around when almost no one else ever did. 

“How long will it take to heal?” Peeta asks when I remain silent. 

“Depends on several things—”

“What things?” Haymitch asks.

“How quickly her body heals. How soon she can start physical therapy.” She gives me a long knowing look. “How well you listens to my recommendations and stay off your feet.”

“So. Months, if not a year?” Haymitch drawls out.

“Shut up,” I tell him. I would love to have had an equally snide remark, but the pain is starting to overwhelm me and all I want are these people out of my house and to pass over into sleep if I can. 

“I see from your medical history,” Doctor Twannsi says smoothly as if she’d never been cut off, “that you’ve had success with bone-knitting before. Do you want me to use that method again?”

I remember the agony of those days in the District 13 medical center, but I also remember being able to fight when the treatment was done.

“Yes.”

“It won’t help the knee; muscles and ligaments just need time,” she warns me.

That’s fine, but having one working leg is better than none. 

“I understand.”

Before I can be given the treatment for my ankle, my hands have to be cleaned which is fine as I need to wait for the short-term drug from the shot flush out of my system. There are still no painkillers that can be combined with the bone-knitting treatment. 

When the time comes for that, I kick Haymitch out, much to his protest, and the tech. I look over at Peeta. 

“No,” is all he says and pulls a chair up to sit by my head. 

The injections themselves hurt more than I can take and tears start to leak out of my tightly-shut eyes. Peeta strokes my hair gently and remains silent but for his harsh breathing. 

“It’ll take about a day,” the doctor tells me, but I don’t acknowledge her. Already, I can feel the horrible sensation of my body fighting technology as my bone starts to fix itself far quicker than nature intended. 

Thankfully, I finally succumb to the lure of unconsciousness.


	3. The Baking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I eye him suspiciously; Peeta’s idea of fun and mine are miles apart even after nearly four years of living together, and two of living in each other’s pockets off and on. And still, I can’t guess what he’s thinking half the time.I eye him suspiciously; Peeta’s idea of fun and mine are miles apart even after nearly four years of living together, and two of living in each other’s pockets off and on. And still, I can’t guess what he’s thinking half the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, no excuses. Here's the final chapter. Enjoy!
> 
> Thanks to soundingsea for the beta and the baking tips. All mistakes are mine.

The five weeks since that fateful day feel as if they’ve passed slower than any other recovery I’ve been forced to endure. I guess in the past, I have always been worried, no, terrified – for my life, for the lives of those I don’t know, for the lives I cared about more than I did my own – and that kept the worst of the boredom at bay. But these days there is not much to worry about. 

Throughout Panem living conditions are the best in living memory. The best, that is, if you hadn’t been living as one of the elite; either in the Capitol, or as one of the favorite pets of President Snow. Not many have to wonder where their next meal is coming from, or if they or their loved ones will die, be beaten, or worse if they don’t comply with their district's rules. While things aren’t perfect, the worries that most lived with day to day seem to have nearly disappeared.  
We – Peeta, Haymitch, and I – have even less to worry about than most. 

All of us Victors are provided for and do not have to work if we don’t want to. 

Some of us are rather emphatically urged never to work. Thought, it’s not like I think I could get a job even if I wanted one. There’s nothing I’m really qualified to do and I was never that good of a student when I was at school. In the time since my second Hunger Games, I find it even harder to concentrate than before and know that going back to school for any sort of field-specific training would be useless. 

Sitting in the front room, I glare at my knee; it’s not healing nearly quickly enough. The day before yesterday, I did a bit too much when sorting through a closet containing clothes that have become too worn to wear in public, but hold incredible sentimental value to me. Once again I'm hobbling around when no one is watching and I am unable to go up and down stairs without a firm grip on the handrail. 

I might also have tried to crawl under the couch, sending darts of sharp pain from my knee along my thigh and up to my groin. Haymitch caught me and hauled me to my feet, demanding if I was a moron or just plain stupid. As he was teetering slightly due to all of the white alcohol he’d consumed, I gave him a little shove to unbalance him and asked him the same question.

The nasty remarks and snide innuendos just degraded from there.

One look at the nasty smirk on Haymitch’s face yesterday during the height of our argument and I kicked him out of the house. I would have done it physically if I’d been able to after his remark about fallen idols and putting lame horses out of their misery. 

Like he’s one to talk; he's a drunkard with a bad attitude and no friends. I ignored his mumble about pots and kettles. People like me. I might not have many friends, but the number is more than his.

Even his geese don’t like him. Though maybe because they know he’ll arbitrarily decide to eat one of them instead of taking their eggs.

Now, angry and bored, I stare resentfully out the window at the lazy flakes of snow that are starting to flutter down. It’s not late enough in the season for the snow to stick, but soon going out on long walks will require plenty of clothing and getting cold despite the layers that make me feel like some sort of fighting mannequin. 

Stupid squirrels. 

I glare at my knee and wonder if there’s anything else I can do to speed up its healing. I hate sitting still; at least when I’m hunting, sitting still for hours has a purpose as I wait for game to cross my path and time the right moment to let an arrow fly. 

Right now, I’m nearly willing to defy the health care professionals, Peeta, and my body to just taste some freedom. To prove to Haymitch that I’m not—

“If you keep glaring like that, your face will freeze in that nasty expression,” Peeta says from behind me.

“How do you know I’m glaring?” I ask belligerently. If nothing else, fighting with Peeta will be something to do.

“Katniss, how long have I known you?” Peeta asks as he makes his way to crouch in front of me.

I just sneer at him then go back to glaring out the window. The snowflakes are coming more quickly, but still aren’t really sticking. 

“Come on,” he says, holding out his hand.

“I’m comfortable, don’t want to go anywhere,” I tell him, despite the fact I wanted nothing else mere seconds ago.

“Liar,” he says good-naturedly. “C'mon. It’ll be fun.”

“I doubt it.”

I eye him suspiciously; Peeta’s idea of fun and mine are miles apart even after nearly four years of living together, and two of living in each other’s pockets off and on. And still, I can’t guess what he’s thinking half the time.

“Better than moping in here all day,” he says blandly, interrupting my thoughts. 

“I’m not moping.”

“Sulking.” He’s still fast and manages to dodge back as my arm shoots out to punch him in the shoulder. 

“Fine,” I acquiesce sullenly. Grabbing Peeta’s outstretched hand, I let him haul me to my feet and hand me my cane which I’d stopped using for the most part until yesterday after I moved a little too quickly and started the deep throbbing ache blooming again in my knee. Resentfully, I take my cane and follow him to the kitchen.

He’s set up to bake with all the battered bowls of white powders and a sparkling clean countertop . I wonder why in the world he wants me here. 

“You want me to watch you make bread?” I ask, slightly bewildered. Usually, he usually shoos me from the kitchen when he’s working, saying my comments are too much of a distraction.

“No, I want to teach you how to bake bread,” he informs me with a slight grin. 

“You want me to bake bread?” The whole idea boggles my mind.

We split the chores fairly evenly with neither of us cooking all that often as Greasy Sae still comes in four times a week, but baking – bread, cakes, cookies, buns – has always been something Peeta has done. I never really had the knack or enjoyment for it. Even before we lived under the same roof, Peeta always baked. Now that we share a home there never seemed to be a point in learning. 

“I think you might like it,” he says mildly.

I think Peeta might have at last gone over the edge. “You always seem so solid, so normal, even after everything that’s happened, but I think your mind has finally broken.” Maybe it’s been being cooped up with me the last interminable weeks that’s finally snapped whatever grip on reality Peeta has maintained. 

“You’ll get to punch things,” he says, reach up towards the shelf where he stores most of the mysterious baking implements. 

While there are many things, and, okay, people, I think I’d enjoy punching, dough isn’t on the list and I tell him so.   
Peeta pulls down the beautiful oblong shaped wooden breadbowl that shines in the overhead lights; it's all warm browns, ashes, and reds, with the occasional dark swirl from where a branch once grew. Tannick – he used to mine with my father, but was always had the most incredible wood carving skills – made the breadbowl for Peeta in exchange for what is most likely half a years' supply worth of bread. 

I’ve only ever seen him use this one for baking bread. There are nearly as many things in the kitchen that I don’t know what they’re for as things I do know how to use. 

Like all the different ends for icing. Or why there are two pans of the exact same size – one made of a heavy, black iron, the other blue on the outside and red on the inside which he got in the Capitol – that never have the same thing cooked in them. Also, there’s that funny round wavy tin with a hole in the middle. 

“Do you have something better to do?” he asks, his voice still mild as a spring day as he puts the bowl on the counter centered between us.

Of course I don’t. Except maybe glaring at the scattering of snowflakes out the front window. My silence is more eloquent than any words could be. 

“Fine.” I capitulate rather bad-naturedly, leaning my cane against the lower counters and going to wash my hands.

Peeta, ever used to my moods, ignores my nastiness and goes about setting the ingredients on the table. It is only then that I notice that most of what I assume that we’ll need has already been measured out and placed into individual glass bowls. 

Fascinated, I watch as he sets everything up in some order he only understands. How the various white powders, brown sugar, and milk can turn into bread is as much a mystery to me as how hovercrafts fly. That is, I know that both things are easily understood by some, I just accept that that’s the way things are. 

The way Peeta makes bread is far more complicated than the way I used to when I lived with my sister and mother. There’s a pang in my heart as I think of Prim, killed far too young. Knowing how quickly I could spiral down into a very dark place, I gently push my last memory of my sister aside and focus on the man next to me.

“First the flour goes into the wooden bowl,” Peeta instructs. “Add in the yeast and brown sugar.” He indicates two smaller bowls. “Mix them together thoroughly.” He hands me a wooden spoon that matches the bowl. “When everything is mixed, make it into a sort of flat mountain with a crater in the middle so that we can pour in the milk.”

As I mix, he melts some butter in a small pan – this one silver in color – on the stove then slowly adds the shiny yellow liquid to the flour as I pour in the milk. While I continue to stir the mixture, he adds some flour from a different bowl. The more I mix, the thicker and sticker the various ingredients become until they turn into dough.  
As I start to grumble, Peeta pulls the spoon from me and tells me to dust my hands with flour. Though I've watched him bake for years, I don't think I've ever really paid attention to flour; it is cool and soft over my fingers and sticks to every part of my skin, giving me a falsely pale look as if I've been coated,in, well, flour.

“I can’t believe that whoever’s job it is to knead this all day long doesn’t end up with arms the size of tree trunks,” I say as the muscles in my upper right arm start to feel the strain. 

“It’s the real reason boys become bakers,” Peeta jokes. “We know that having good muscles to fill out our t-shirts sets girls’ hearts aflutter.” He moves to stand at my back and I feel the solid strength of him behind me. I lean back a little as his left arm circles my waist. The solid band of his arm takes some of the weight off my bad knee.

I continue, slower now, to knead as his right hand settles on my shoulder, kneading slightly, in an echo of my motions, then slides down my upper arm. His nails tickle the soft skin  of my inner elbow and go lower, his fingers encircle my forearm and continue down until his hand rests over mine, kneading ever-slower circles. 

He reaches around me to the same bowl of flour he used earlier and sprinkles more onto the main bowl. As we knead the dough becomes less uniform and starts to get frayed bits. The heat and strength of Peeta now surrounds me on three sides with the cold hard edge of the counter an unfeeling contrast at my front. 

I can feel the flex and tightening of the muscles in his arm against mine; his breathing synchs up so that he inhales when I do, and together we exhale and massage the dough. The air around us seems to hum and I think that it wasn’t so long ago that I was still not sure what to do in this area. Not that Peeta had that much more experience, but we found our own way quite well in a pretty short amount of time. 

Every time he breathes out, the hair next to my left ear moves and causes little shivers of pleasure to race down my spine.

“How much longer?” I ask as I arch slightly and slowly rub my back against his front. 

“A little bit,” he murmurs in my ear.

Now. I want him now, and my body all but orders me to take him.

Only the tightening of his grip on my hand keeps me from turning around. Both of us have kept up training and while we’re in nearly as good as shape as we were for the seventy-fifth Hunger Games, Peeta has grown several inches and now can take me down without too much effort. 

Between my injuries, the pain medication, and me getting my period, we haven’t shared more than a perfunctory kiss in five weeks. Well, five weeks and two days.

Again, he slowly sprinkles in flour, but this time when he moves, he rubs his growing erection against my butt. 

Had my knee been stronger, I would have abandoned the bread-making lesson and tackled Peeta to the floor.  
“Time to move,” Peeta says, voice soft, warm puffs of breath fluttering over my skin.

“You’re telling me,” I mutter.

Unfortunately, he means the bread dough and not us. 

He ushers me to a kitchen chair and covers the bowl with a damp cloth. Thwarted desire races through me as Peeta competently cleans up the small storm of flour I caused with some of my more vigorous kneading as if the last couple of minutes where our bodies nearly combusted didn’t happen. Not wanting him to see how aroused I am, I focus on the first thing that grabs my attention: a book similar to those we used in school. This one is on different types of rocks and minerals found throughout Panem. 

“Didn’t you get enough of this in school?” I ask incredulously. Picking the book up, I flip through it wondering not only where he got it from, but if he made some sort of special effort to get a book on such a boring topic. Knowing Peeta, there was probably some sort of trade involving moving something heavy or baking. I would have noticed if he’d bartered with a painting, since he almost exclusively painted for himself. 

“All we were taught was coal, coal, and more coal.” Peeta rinses out a wash cloth and begins to wipe down the counters. “There are so many different minerals and rocks that were disregarded because the Capitol didn’t need them.” He rinses the cloth again and hangs it to dry over the faucet. “Some of the best pigments for paint come from various minerals I can get within a day’s walk.”

I stare at him for a long moment trying to figure out if he’s serious or not. But this is Peeta, and he’s almost always serious. Even when he’s grinning away like he is now, he’s serious. 

“Rocks?” I ask, still not comprehending. Again, I flip through the book as if its contents will have magically changed into something not as dull as rocks. 

“Says the girl who has read everything available about the geography of each district and its history.”

“At least that’s practical,” I tell him, crossing my arms over my chest. If we ever need to flee, to hide, I now know the layout of each district in Panem down to the secondary streets, in addition to where the now-defunct factories, mines, and warehouses are located.

Hiding our faces would be a whole other issue, but I figure as good a painter as Peeta has become, he can probably do something about that. If we ever need to hide again, I’ll be better prepared. We won’t have to worry about starving or getting weapons, or where it’s safe to hide. If we have to hide again, this time I’ll make sure that nobody dies because of me.

Peeta is looking at me now, head cocked to the side, as if trying to discern my thoughts. I must let something through, because the smile slides off his face and he crosses to kneel by my chair and take me in his arms.

For all the heat of our earlier embrace, this one is comfort and reassurance and a promise that if the worst should happen, he’ll run with me. Or, I’ll run with him. No questions, no debates, just grabbing the essentials and hiding away until it’s safe.

And if it never happens to be safe here again, we know enough to live out the rest of our lives quietly. We’ve both experienced far too much excitement and the pain that it inevitably brings to long for it ever again. 

We stay like that, arms loosely wrapped around each other, my head pressed against his neck, the reassuring thump of his pulse beating against my cheek, the familiar scent of him filling my nostrils.

“Time for the salt,” he tells me, hi lips close, but not close enough to my neck. I shiver as his body slides briefly against mine and I know, even without being able to see his face, that his lips are turned up in a hint of a smile he gets when I react just this way.

Once again, he stands behind me, arms caging me against the counter. If I wanted him to, I have no doubt that Peeta would move, but this is turning out to be quite an interesting lesson. 

There's no way his brushing over my back and the way his finger splay over my stomach is anything but a tease when he reaches to pull the small glass bowl of salt over to us. 

“Now, we knead the dough again, adding the salt” he tells me. As he speaks, he demonstrates what I need to do. Clumsily at first, I copy his motions. At first the salt grits against my fingers, no unlike when small pebbles find their way into my shoes. Unlike the pebbles, the salt slowly dissolves making the dough once again stick to my hands.

We stand in silence for several minutes, Peeta’s hard body pressing against my back, the sticky, warm dough sliding and squeezing under my hands. The quiet is something we’re good at; we can be together for hours and not utter a word. That said, with the way his hand is now rubbing unhurried circles on my stomach as if demonstrating in slow motion how I’m to do my task, I think quiet is going to be coming to an end soon.

“Harder,” he says. His lips are right next to my ear and his breath tickles my nerve endings, sending bolts of pleasure through my body.

I follow his instructions, but also tilt my head back until it rests on his shoulder. His hands are now on my hips squeezing in time to my kneading.

“Harder,” he mummers again. “Faster.”

If I’d known this was how Peeta planned on teaching me to bake bread, I would have given in to his good-natured nagging months ago.

His hands leave my body and my murmuring incoherent protest becomes a growl of displeasure as he moves away entirely. With a grin, he pushes my hands aside, and takes the breadbowl from me. Peeta buries his hands in the dough for a long second before starting to knead much faster than I was. His hands seem to whip it over and over at a startling speed in the kneading bowl. 

“Let me try,” I ask, needing to focus on something else besides the way his body is constantly rubbing against mine as he works the dough.

Without a word, he abandons the dough for me to take over. Trying my best to copy his movements, I start. Once again, Peeta comes to stand behind me, his hips cradling my butt, his back rubbing over mine with every move I make. 

“Faster,” he says, voice low and rough and sounding so much like he does when he wants nothing more than to lose his body in mine.

The bowl slides across the counter, but before it can crash into the wall, Peeta stops it.

“A bit gentler and more control,” he says, his voice sending ripples of desire through me. “You want the dough to be malleable, not flat and beaten.”

His right hand has returned to rest on my stomach and he starts the leisurely rubbing again as if to show me how to knead the dough at quarter-time speed.

I try again and while I definitely lack Peeta’s grace, I’m getting the job done. Once I get the hang of the kneading, his hand stops circling and starts leisurely stroking up and down my torso. How I don’t put my hand through the countertop when his fingers brush the underside of my breast, I’ll never know.

To pay him back for his torment, I slowly start to rub my back and butt against him: up and down, back and forth, slowly and softly enough to tease rather than satisfy.

Abruptly, he pulls back and the only thing that stops me from stumbling is his hand on the small of my back.

“What the hell?” I ask, spinning around. Unfortunately, I move too quickly and my knee cries out in pain, even if I don’t utter a sound.

The smugly flirtatious smile is instantly wiped from Peeta’s face and consternation takes its place. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, placing both his hands on my hips to steady me.

My knee is throbbing slightly, but it doesn’t feel like I’ve re-injured it in any way as I slowly test my weight and mobility. 

“Yeah. Just moved too quickly.” Despite my protest that I’m fine, Peeta hustles me into a kitchen chair, then turns back to the bread to finish kneading it.

When Peeta considers the dough done, he dampens the kitchen towel he used earlier and places it over the bowl. Apparently, the towel keeps the bread from forming a crust and traps the heat made by the yeast.

“But bread always has a crust,” I point out as he carefully covers the bowl.

“That’s from the baking. If the bread forms a crust now, it won’t rise properly,” he says in a voice very much like Mr. Batimal, our fourth year math teacher.

Now we wait. And wait. And. Wait. 

As we wait, I decide it’s just as well that it’s Peeta who usually bakes the bread as this whole process would frustrate me beyond measure. To pass the time, we cut up potatoes, carrots, parsnips, and onions for the stew that Peeta plans to make for dinner later this evening. It’ll go well with the fresh bread.

If it ever rises to Peeta’s specifications. 

I shuck some peas and watch Peeta mince garlic. Eyeing the cutting board, I poke at him until there’s nearly twice the cloves as he originally intended to use. Peeta fries the meat in a saucepan with various spices. adding some of the garlic and onions.

While our meals aren’t complicated, Peeta can make just about anything taste pretty damned good. The ingredients might not be on par with what was available in the Capitol, but some of the meals Peeta has made have tasted just as good.

The smell of browning meat fills the kitchen as the chunks sizzles in the skillet. Peeta grins at me as I start to read in a mockingly serious voice about emeralds found not too far from District 12 in a place that used to be known as North Carolina. It is one of the nicest moments of my life. There are more of them now – nice moments – and I don’t take any of them for granted. 

We chat about nothing, then slowly lapse into silence, working in tandem to get the stew on the stove so that it’ll be ready when the bread is.

If it ever rises. 

Finally, just when I think I’ll have to resort to actually seriously reading the rock book – or knocking myself unconscious with it to help the time pass – Peeta sticks a flour-covered finger into the dough. Looking intently at the hole he made Peeta proclaims the dough ready to shape. Offering me a hand, he helps me to my feet and we move back to the counter. 

It’s astonishing how much bigger the beige lump has become; even more that it will not only be edible, but in fact taste pretty good if it lives up to the loaves Peeta has baked on his own in the past. I’ve never really paid attention to Peeta’s baking before, beyond the time he spends in the kitchen. And when he spends lots of time in the kitchen – lots and lots and lots of time – the house smell wonderful, and I get fresh bread. Or cookies, or cake, or crackers, or buns, or whatever he’s made. 

Sometimes I stick around for part of the process, but unless I’m in one of my states – and then time has no meaning – I rarely stick around for the seemingly interminable hours it takes to bake something. 

“Now what?” I ask, sticking out a finger to poke it into the lump. Peeta gently slaps my hand aside.

“Now we divide it into three equal parts,” he tells me as he sprinkles flour all over the counter he cleaned not an hour ago. Baking is a far messier process than I ever thought and I idly wonder exactly how much flour Peeta goes through in a week. A month. My mind balks at trying to figure out a yearly amount.

“Where does all the flour come from?” I ask out loud, following along the line of my thoughts. 

“Here and there,” Peeta says as he flattens the dough out. “We don’t want any air bubbles.” As he speaks, his hands work competently to break through the dough where he finds trapped air.

Gently, Peeta once again places me between his body and the counter. “Your turn,” he murmurs as he places my hands on the dough.

Trying to copy his movements as best I can, I find several good-sized bubbles I’m sure Peeta intentionally ignored.

“Good,” he says, arms coming alongside mine and together we run our hands over the dough. “Now, we separate.” Like most of the cooking implements, Peeta has a special set of knives that I rarely touch. He takes one out of the block that sits within easy reach, his body crowding in close to mine. 

Pressing up against my back, Peeta stretches and grabs the kitchen scale that lives under the cabinet next to the east wall. In the end, he has to move and stand beside me. Instantly, I miss the warmth of his body at my back. 

I eye the dough dubiously as it seems to move ever so slightly where the bubbles were; contracting, reforming. It actually creeps me out a little bit, but I say nothing not wanting give Peeta any ammunition for teasing me at a later date. 

As Peeta competently cuts the dough, his arm brushes mine, but I can’t tell if it’s intentional or not as he seems solely focused on the task at hand. Dough separated, weighed, and plunked down into three creepy lumps, Peeta turns to me and grins.

“This is the fun part.” He grabs the pans and starts to smear butter on the first one.

“You and I have very different ideas about fun,” I tell him tartly. While I’ve enjoyed being in the kitchen today with Peeta – not only because I feel more grounded when we’re together, but also the crushing boredom of the last week has been alleviated – I will never truly enjoy doing any of the kitchen tasks as much as he does. Too many years of barely scraping by, of trying to stretch my tesserae to feed three of us when there were barely rations enough for one. Of flat bread, stale water, barely-edible gristle that means cooking is almost always associated with hunger and unhappiness in my mind. Even Prim—

My heart stutters at the thought of Prim and much of my earlier enjoyment leeches from me.

“Katniss?” Peeta calls my name, looking at me with infinitely sad eyes. 

He knows me better than just about anyone, sometimes better than I know myself. I shake my head as if the physical action can ward off the emotional pain that still swamps me at the oddest times.

Instead of saying anything, he just cups my cheek and doesn’t let me hide from him. It would be so much easier if he did, but I spent months hiding within myself and know as he does that the effort to pull myself back to life is a hard road. One I don’t want to have to walk ever again.

“Let’s make the bread,” I say, turning resolutely back to look at the three slug-like lumps. Something in my expression must have registered, because with more glee than I think the situation warrants, Peeta strokes the top of the section nearest to him.

“First, try your best not to make any tears in the dough,” Peeta instructs as he starts stretching his piece into a long rectangle. Copying his movements, I stretch out the piece of dough closest to me leaving the middle slug alone. “Fold the top bit down just past the middle. Then take the bottom and fold it up until it overlaps the top.”

His actions follow his words and I follow him. As I watch, he presses the dough and it lets out a noise that I can’t describe as anything but a fart. Stunned, I look at him, then start to snicker. The look he gives me is one I remember other children getting from various teachers when, at ten years old, they would bring a hand or arm to their mouth and make farting noises. It was the height of humor and one that I have to admit could get a smile out of me from time to time.

“Say excuse me,” I say in the snooty tone one of the girls two years ahead of us used during one of the all-school assemblies when some anonymous student had made a remarkably similar sound.

“Make sure you don’t have any air bubbles,” Peeta replies, still wearing the disapproving teacher look. The corners of his mouth twitch up as I push out an air bubble of my own and I wish I had a dozen more to crack through his façade and make him laugh.

Peeta doesn’t laugh or smile nearly as much as he used to, but those sly grins are coming more and more regularly. As is his wicked sense of humor, though it is slightly darker than it was before. 

“Fold it again the same way.” The dough in front of Peeta is now a much smaller, fatter rectangle with one side the same width as the bread pan. Again he pushes and prods for air bubbles, but to my hidden disappointment, there are none. He flattens the seams so that they seal into the dough keeping out all unwanted air. I copy him and only have one small, nearly soundless air bubble.

Carefully, Peeta rolls the rectangle on itself and taps down the long seam, then smoothes it. Gently, he massages the dough – which looks even more like a giant slug than ever before – to force out any of the remaining trapped air. At either end he pinches the dough gently to close them off.

My efforts are far from producing the neat lines and flattened ends that his did, but he smiles at me.

“Practice will make it better,” he tells me.

“Having you do it makes better,” I inform him smartly as I dump my oddly shaped dough slug into the pan with the seam down the way he did.

“Try the last one,” Peeta tells me cajolingly.

Sighing, pretending to be more put out than I really am, I get to work.

“I’ll never be a baker,” I tell him matter-of-factly as I dump my second effort into the last bread pan; it looks no better than the first. 

“With practice—”

“I’ll learn to hide better when you come to get me to help you,” I put in. Grabbing one of the pans, I shuffle sideways to the oven.

“They don’t go in yet,” Peeta tells me, taking the pan from my hands with a chiding smile.

“Are you kidding?” How long can bread possibly take to make? This is bordering on the ridiculous. 

“They need to rise again,” he says with perfect seriousness, though I think that I can see amusement hidden in his eyes. 

Nearly convinced he’s playing a joke on me, I go to grab my first bread pan. “I’m getting hungry; let’s just put them in now.”

“They have to have their second rise,” he tells me, tugging the second pan out of my hands. I turn to face him as he sets both pans on the counter next to his original one, dusting them with flour and covering them with the same towel. His hands come to rest next to my hips on the counter, his body gently forcing mine to turn so that my back is to the bread pans. Whether he means to keep me from trying again to reach for a bread pan or it’s just where his hands and body end up is hard to tell.

“But, they’ve already had two times to rise,” I tell him, perplexed, wondering if maybe he somehow forgot one of them. One of those interminable waits between playing with the squishy slug-dough. 

“Those were one rise with a break in the middle when the yeast was growing and coming back to life. This one is for the dough to release any remaining carbon dioxide. Also, it helps the yeast cells redistribute and relax the gluten.”

I stare at him for a good twenty seconds trying to comprehend what he just told me. Logically, I understand the words, but in our current context they make no sense. Actually, in just about any context they make no sense to me. My lack of comprehension could also have something to do with the laughter I can see dancing in his eyes and the way his body seems to nearly be touching mine though I never noticed him moving so close.

“Plus,” he continues, the air of his words puffing over my lips, “it will help the interior and exterior temper—”

Moving swiftly, I shut Peeta up the best way I know how; I kiss him. How anyone ever figured out how to make bread – which I always assumed was a fairly simple process considering the ‘bread’ I used to bake when we lived in our little house in District 12 – is beyond me. And, frankly, I don’t really want to know any more, not when my lips press together, open, and I slide my tongue past Peeta’s lips and delve into his mouth.

Not when we move so that I’m pressed against him from thighs to chests to lips. Not when our breath mingles into one, and his hands go to my hips to hold me in place as he explores my mouth as if it’s been forever since he last kissed me.

My fingers tunnel through his hair, which is getting shaggy to the point of needed to be cut, and I take control of our kiss. My tongue runs over the roof of his mouth, seeks out the soft flesh of his inner cheeks, savors the taste that I now would recognize no matter how long or what techniques were used to try and wipe him from my mind.

Our kiss turns desperate and the hunger I feel for him eclipses any I’ve ever had for food.

Slowly, his left leg slips between mine and I start to rock against him. Desire coils my muscles tight and I can feel slickness gathering between my thighs as I continue to move against him. Peeta’s hands leave my hips to cup my butt and haul me firmly against him. The ridge of his arousal presses against me and I want nothing more than to feel him thrusting inside me, our slick bodies writhing together as we—

Suddenly, Peeta draws his mouth from mine. I stand there, unable to process more than that he’s pulled away. My body urges me to keep him kissing me, to keep up the sweet friction of our bodies rubbing together, but Peeta’s hands go back to my hips and hold me still. 

“What—”

“Can’t do this here,” he pants out.

“Why the hell not?” I ask, my level of frustration vying for dominance with my arousal. 

“Your knee. You’ll hurt it again.” He’s still slowly rocking counterpoint to my movement as if he too is unable to battle the needs of his body. His slow push and retreat is steadily driving me crazy. 

“My knee is fine,” I promise fervently as I deliberately squirm against his erection.

“Your knee is only just starting to get back to normal,” he groans out the last words as I skim my hands down and cup the straining evidence of his arousal through his pants.

Frantically, Peeta looks around the kitchen, his eyes settling on the kitchen table like a drowning victim finding a flotation device. He lets out a low moan, but whether it’s because he’s found whatever he was looking for, or because of the way I grip his erection more firmly, is a mystery.

Shuffling, we move over to the table. Neither of us seems to be able to part long enough to walk; the desire between us has been building for days, weeks, and now that we’ve let some of it out, there’s no stopping the rest. I lean in, he leans down, and our lips meet in a hard, passionate kiss that makes my nipples tighten and the need to feel all of him in, on, around me turn into a roaring demand.

The rounded wood edge hits the back of my thighs and Peeta hoists me with speedy ease and settles me on the table top. Using his right foot, he drags a chair over and positions it so that I can prop my injured leg on it. This also has the added benefit of spreading my thighs wide and Peeta just glides right in until his hard dick pushes against me in the most incredible way. 

Briefly, I want to be in one of the dozens of skirts or dresses that have passed through my possession over the years. If I was wearing one, then all it would take is shoving his pants down and moving my underwear aside to claim what my body craves so desperately. 

Desire surges in me as we rock together, so close, so almost there, but with frustrating barriers of clothing between us. The want, the need, the love, that I feel for Peeta is at one time both powerful and humbling.   
I thread my fingers through his hair and pull until his eyes meet mine, so that he can see all that I’m feeling, all that I know I’m inadequate at expressing with words. From the way his breath hitches, the way his hands tighten on my body, I know that the message is received. And despite the fact that I can’t ever really find the words, and am only (okay at best) at showing him, Peeta knows me down to the most basic of my inner demons and hopes, and he gets me. He wants me back, needs me back. And the thing that once made me uncomfortable and now fills me with joy: he loves me back.

The brief respite from our storming desire evaporates between the space of heartbeats and I pull his mouth back to mine. 

Meanwhile, Peeta slides his hands under my shirt, pushes my bra up so that he can cup my breasts in his strong, rough hands. His thumbs scrape over my straining nipples, causing me to moan in need. It’s been so long and I need him so badly.

After our first awkward attempts, we managed to figure out exactly what to do with each other’s bodies and have never looked back. Since then, Peeta and I have never gone so long without having sex and the slow itch of want has turned into a raging inferno of need.

Moving quickly, I break our kiss and pull my shirt and bra over my head in a tangled mess aside not caring where it lands. Ducking his head, Peeta takes my right nipple between his lips and sucks hard. My back arches and I strain to feel more of him, to touch more.

My hands scramble at the hem of his shirt and tear it over his head, causing his mouth to lose contact with my nipple; the loss is more than worth access to his sleek, toned upper body. I can’t help but run my hands over the expanse of his chest, marveling that this sweet, understanding, passionate man is mine. 

And that I am his. 

Leaning forward I nibble along his collarbone and up to the pulse that throbs rapidly in his throat. His skin is soft and salty and hot and the way his pulse races causes my own heartbeat to send a thundering echo in my ears. Peeta shudders; his hands once again at my hips, flex convulsively as I suck on a spot just behind his right ear. With hands that are usually rock-steady, Peeta fumbles with the buttons of my pants until they’re all finally undone. I wrap my arms around his neck so that he can take my weight as I lift up. Working in tandem, Peeta quickly shucks down my pants and underwear. 

The table is only slightly cooler than my skin when I sit back down and I use the contrast to ground myself so that I can reach for his pants. If I let him, Peeta will draw this out all night and I’m too desperate for the feel of him to let that happen.

Our hand tangle and briefly battle for dominance, until his move aside so that I can undo the fastenings. As I start to loosen the second to last button, I get distracted by two of his fingers entering me in a solid, sure thrust. Abandoning my task, my hands go to his shoulders in a futile attempt to anchor me to this reality. 

“Peeta.” His name is a moan, a plea, a promise for reprisal as his fingers set up a quick rhythm that has me squirming to match his movements and forgetting my earlier resolve not to let him draw this out. 

While I focus on the wonderful feel of his slightly rough fingers thrusting inside me, Peeta’s other hand goes to my left breast to tug and tease my nipple in tandem with his movements between my thighs. When his fingers are the deepest inside me, Peeta crooks them slightly and nips the super sensitive skin under my nipple being careful to never touch the straining peak. Soundless cries leave my parted lips as I try to focus on anything but the points of contact between my body and his. 

In a desperate lurch towards him, I manage to get my lips to his; my mouth latches on to his and we kiss frantically as his hands moves over me, in me; faster, harder, deep as possible, until it’s all too much and my pleasure crests on a long, low cry that seems to come from the very depths of my being. 

Breathing hard, I bury my head on his left shoulder; his right hand leaves my breast to run long, soothing strokes up and down my spine. The strokes probably would have been more effective if his fingers weren’t still buried palm-deep inside me, curled ever so slightly. 

I’m not sure how long it is before I muster enough strength and coordination to pull myself away, however ever slight the separation as the muscles in my neck and shoulders feel as pliant as the dough rising in the pans. But manage I do, because my need to kiss is greater. Our lips meet open mouthed and let my hands drop from his shoulders to his hips. We continue to kiss, tongues tangling, as the level of our desire starts rising again. 

I stealthily move my hands until I can slide the right one down the front of his mostly unbuttoned pants and into his underwear and wrap my hand around his dick. It’s rock-hard and velvet soft. 

“Second rise?” I ask him wickedly, breaking our kiss.

“This is just the first rise,” he says, lips curving up in a knowing smile. “There are still at least two more to come, so to speak, after this.” 

We both pause slightly at his words; me that he said them, and Peeta I think to look at my stunned expression. It is rare for him to voice such thoughts despite the fact that I know he has them.

I think he does it just for this exact reaction. 

“Peeta!” I finally manage, both proud and indignant. 

His snicker turns into a long growling moan as I stroke him from tip to root and back up. My thumb swirls around the head of his dick. As well as he knows my body and its reactions, I know his. I take great care to pay special attention to that incredibly sensitive shallow dip on the underside of the head of his dick.

Inside me, Peeta’s fingers jerk and send a shudder of fiery need through my body.

With economic movements, I manage to shove his pants and underwear down far enough so that his dick is free. His fingers slide free of my body leaving me bereft and craving more. His hands rest on the tops of my thighs; large, and strong, and reassuring, contrasting nicely with my own strong, pale, smaller frame. 

“We’ll worry about the other rises later.” I nip his shoulder. “After we knead out this one.”

“And you said you didn’t want to do any more baking,” Peeta jokes as he easily maneuvers my hips to the very edge of the tabletop. 

“I think it’s better if only one of us focuses on the baking,” I tell him as I firmly stroke his throbbing dick. “That way neither of us will fight over where things go.” It’s even more rare that I make the truly sexual comments, so it takes a second for Peeta to get the not-so-hidden meaning to comment. 

“I don’t know,” he says as he shifts his hips so that the only thing keeping the head of his erection from sliding through the slick waiting heat between my thighs is the grip my hand has around him. “I think we’ve figured out a pretty good system for where things go.”

Leaning in, I kiss him fiercely as I line up his dick with my opening. With a long, controlled thrust, Peeta enters me causing both our mouths to part on a moan and a shudder of appreciation to ripple from me through him. Peeta pulls his head back far enough for our eyes to meet and lock. Panting, we stare at each other frozen in place. It feels like it’s been a million years since we’ve been together like this. 

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I measure time by the throbbing beats of my heart. One beat: looking, watching, understanding. Six beats: shivering, straining, knowing. Nine beats: I can feel him start to shift inside me. Fourteen beats: my inner muscles tighten reflexively on him. Beat seventeen, eighteen, nineteen: his left hand slides from my right hip and he positions it under my right thigh.  Twenty-one beats: Peeta takes the weight off my right leg, parting my thighs wider, sinking into me just a little bit deeper.

Twenty-six: with a jerk he withdraws from me, his dick sliding easily through the wet evidence of my desire. 

My own hands wrap around his upper arms and I hang on as best I can, using the leverage to meet him as Peeta thrust back into me. 

Time and again, he withdraws and returns, his hands gripping me just as tightly as mine grip him. My heart beats a rapid tattoo in my chest and I wonder how it doesn’t thump right out of my body. I’ve long ago lost count, or it could have been just two beats previous, but the count no longer matters in the relentless driving need for more, faster, deeper Peeta.

My muscles coil tighter and tighter, the only thing holding me together as Peeta continues to move in and out of me. A fine sheen of sweat covers our bodies and his hand is having trouble keeping my leg in position, so I wrap it around his hips, tilting my pelvis in such a way that it feels as if he’s sinking in even deeper. 

I can feel my climax rapidly approaching and the urge to let it come and hold it off fight for dominance. I love the feeling of Peeta moving inside me, rubbing all the places that make thoughts scatter and pleasure more important than breathing. I could go on like this forever, trapped in the place between desire and completion. However, the wonderful, all-encompassing waves of pleasure that destroy all thoughts and sap all but the most basic abilities from me are the most incredible feeling in the world. 

And so I let go. Let my muscles coil with straining pleasure-filled tension until I can’t contain the feelings anymore and my release crashes over me. On a low guttural moan, I yank Peeta to me and greedily suck on his tongue. My back arches as fiery need overwhelms me causing me to break our latest kiss. Despite the raging need, I can see in his eyes, and by the corded muscles of his neck, the strain around his eyes as he staves off his own release. Peeta manages to keep his dick buried deep inside of me as wave after wave of dizzying pleasure robs me of most of my senses. 

Dimly, I’m aware that Peeta has started to tremble all over, his muscles tensing and relaxing at irregular intervals. As my orgasm starts to end, he lets loose his tightly-held control. Several jerky thrusts later, Peeta groans my name as his own orgasm rushes through and out of him.

We lean against each other like lost combatants after an epic battle, unsure of what exactly to do nest, but knowing that victory has been sweetly achieved. Our breathing is like panting of an overtaxed dog in the noonday sun and just as attractive. 

A trickle of sweat makes it way down my back causing me to shiver slightly as my hyper-aware senses are still on overload. We both moan as my muscles tighten around his dick which is still inside me and mostly hard.

With a shaky laugh, Peeta strokes a hand through my hair, tugging my head back gently when he reaches the ends.

“Been a while,” he says. His breathing is still fast, color rides high on his cheeks, and his eyes are glassily unfocused from the power of his release. 

 

“Maybe we should never go so long between again,” I tell him in all seriousness. Despite my incredible orgasm, I want him again with a ridiculous intensity.

“Deal,” he agrees emphatically. To seal the promise, Peeta gives me a quick, hard kiss that leaves my senses buzzing and wanting more. 

At some point, my leg has lowered from around his waist and he’s once again supporting its weight. I’m starting to feel cold and not a little sticky. I’m not sure why that thought makes me think of the bread and I peer over Peeta’s shoulder to see if it’s ready to put in the oven yet.

“It still needs a bit more time,” Peeta tells me without even looking.

“How do you know?” I ask him suspiciously.

“Because, at this temperature, the current rise needs about an hour. And,” he adds with a wicked grin, “while we made good use of the time, it wasn’t an hour’s worth.”

I snort a laugh and give him a small smile. “Know it all,” I taunt. 

“About this, yes,” he agrees readily. 

“Let’s clean the table,” I tell him practically. 

“Stay here, I’ll do it.” With another quick kiss - this one more friendly - he withdraws from my body and then nearly falls on his bare butt when he forgets that his pants are tangled somewhere around his knees.

“Tell me again about knowing it all?” I ask, unable to stop the laughter that falls from my lips. 

Peeta gives me a mock-indignant look that causes me to laugh all the harder. Easing myself off the table, I grab his shirt – which is caught on the back of the chair we used to support my bad knee – before he can, and pull it on. My knee gives a twinge of pain that I try to hide from him.

“I saw that,” he tells me, not bothering to look up as he sorts out the tangle of his pants and underwear.

“You weren’t even looking,” I protest loudly.

“Doesn't matter. This is one of those things that I know about, too.”

“No one actually likes a know-it-all,” I mutter to myself, but loud enough to make sure that he hears too.

“I like you,” he tells me then dodges out of the way as I got to pinch his bare chest. 

If my knee wasn’t starting to throb just the slightest, I would have been on him in a heartbeat and then we’d see who would have the last comment. As it is, I move gingerly around the kitchen, gathering our clothes, peaking at the dough in the bread pans before Peeta can stop me, pouring us both tall glasses of water. 

We drink them down in rapid gulps and I remember a time in the Games when water was so hard to come by that I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get a glass again. While I’ve become accustomed to getting a glass whenever I want, I have in no way started to take it for granted. I don’t think I ever will. 

Together we lazily tidy each other, then the kitchen, as we wait for the bread dough to finish rising.

Eventually, Peeta peels back the towel, glances approvingly at the round top of the lumps of dough and declares that it’s time to put the pans in the oven.

I let him do the honors and sit down at the kitchen table, flipping through the book on rocks and minerals to pass the time until we can take the bread out of the oven. Peeta pulls a chair up close to me; we tudy the page on what minerals the soil in our area contains and discuss what it would need to grow various root vegetables. 

“We should try growing some of our own vegetables next year,” Peeta says, one finger circling a bunch of very dirty potatoes. 

“Sure,” I agree. It might be fun to plant a garden, to eat food that I’ve grown myself - more than just stumbling over them in the forest and waiting for the right time to harvest them. 

The warm, comforting smell of fresh bread – something I always will associate with hope and survival – fills the kitchen. Not long after the timer goes off, we debate what to grow, what we’ll eat, what would be useful to trade or sell as the bread cools and the stew simmers.

Companionably, Peeta and I get dinner ready; he cuts the bread and spreads butter that melts golden and so appealingly into the nooks and pockets of the bread. I dish up plates of stew and plunk them down on the table with a cheeky grin at Peeta's huff of resignation to my perpetual disregard for our plates and bowls. 

This life is not at all what I ever would have pictured for myself, but then I never pictured contented happiness either.


End file.
